The Taste of Temptation

by Julia Kelly

  She slit the envelope open with her butter knife, and, as before, a newspaper article fluttered free along with one line dashed off on cheap writing paper.

  Useful facts for your next dinner party.

  —J.M.

  She unfolded the newspaper clipping, a bold headline jumping off the page at her.

  DEATH TOLL RISES AMONG BRITISH SPORTSMEN, HUNTS TO BLAME

  Foxhunting, a marker of genteel and aristocratic life alike in Britain, has been linked to the deaths of dozens of eager sportsmen in the previous year.

  In Sussex, a rider broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse only last—

  Caroline bit her lip. Moray was mad. Absolutely mad. Why else would the man send her newspaper clippings—the first about a drunken bet gone wrong and the second outlining the rather gruesome ways a gentleman could die in the name of sporting glory? The article was the perfect skewering of Trevlan, and she couldn’t help being amused by the cheekiness of it.

  “I see it was the good sort of letter,” said Elsie.

  Caroline hurried to stuff the paper back into its envelope and shove it between the pages of a book she’d brought downstairs with the intention of retiring to the drawing room and reading after breakfast. “It’s nothing.”

  The look her sister-in-law gave her was unmistakable.

  “A friend had a bit of news they needed to share, that’s all,” she said.

  Friend? That would be the day. Yet, despite the acrimonious relationship between them, she had to admit—begrudgingly—that Moray kept things lively.

  “In that case, shall we adjourn?” asked Elsie, rising.

  She nodded and went to follow her sister-in-law. Lively was the last thing she needed, and she would do well to remember that.

  On Monday morning, Moray strode through the door off the second-floor landing and into the huge open space that served as the Lothian’s bullpen. All around the room, reporters’ heads bobbed up and then quickly snapped back down again. A couple editors stuck their heads out of their office doors only to shoot back into them like mice who’d spotted a cat.

  He stopped in the center of the office next to the table where the city reporters typically worked and held up the clutch of papers in his hand.

  “Mr. Spalding,” he said, catching the eye of the paper’s best—albeit most arrogant—crime reporter, “would you please hazard a guess as to how many errors I found in this morning’s late edition?”

  Spalding leaned back in his spring-loaded chair and stretched his legs out in front of him until he could prop them on an open desk drawer. “One hundred and twenty-two.”

  “Forty-three,” Moray announced, shaking the papers a little and looking around the office. “Forty-three.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the crime writer lean over and mutter to his colleague MacIver in a loud whisper, “What can you expect when you have amateurs writing?”

  “Three of them were in your article about the aftermath of the River Dee ferryboat disaster, Mr. Spalding,” said Moray, using the top of his shoe to hook the reporter’s feet off the desk drawer. A laugh broke out when Spalding’s feet crashed to the floor and he nearly pitched out of his chair.

  “I expect better from everyone,” said Moray, loudly enough to cut the laughs short. “From reporters and editors, from the Lothian and the Tattler. Remember that a paper is only as good as its reputation, and all it takes is a few bad months for us all to be out of a job. Back to work.”

  There were some grumbles, but sure enough, everyone diligently dropped their heads and the buzz of an active, healthy newsroom resumed.

  When he turned, he found Eva standing in the doorway, still dressed in her coat and hat.

  “You almost missed my speech,” he said as he walked over.

  “I was out working on your little project,” she said.

  His senses sharpened. “Any progress?”

  “Your patience will not go unrewarded.”

  He’d known there was something about Trevlan that didn’t feel right. The man was all puffed-up, boring bluster, and stared at Caroline with far too much open admiration.

  Not that Moray cared.

  “Were there really forty-three errors?” she asked.

  His lips twitched. “It was closer to twenty-one, but they need to be frightened into vigilance sometimes. It keeps the editors honest too. We’ve all been slipping.”

  “Either way, it’s too many,” she said, shaking her head as he opened the door to their office for her. “Have you read the Edinburgh Social Standard today?”

  “Not yet. I was with McLeod and then I was counting missing commas. Why?”

  Instead of answering, she thrust toward him a copy of the scandal sheet his rival Ross had launched just last year, no doubt to irk Moray. The moment he read the headline, he snatched it up, his grip crinkling the thin pages.

  DUELING GENTLEMEN VIE FOR ATTENTION OF JILTED BEAUTY

  Leave nothing to chance and rely ONLY upon the Edinburgh Social Standard, dear readers, for only this fine paper has the very latest news of a certain London Lady who won our hearts when love abandoned her two years ago. A chirping little bird tells us that Miss B— was caught between two gentlemen, both fighting for her attention.

  In particular, she attracted the notice of a certain Mr. M—, a man with few recommendations to his name . . .

  Moray slapped the paper down on his desk. “ ‘Few recommendations to his name’?”

  “Keep reading,” said Eva, her arms crossed.

  He growled but snatched up the Standard again.

  . . . when they were seated next to one another at a certain hostess’s dinner party on Saturday. The lady seemed displeased with the gentleman’s presence, but still he insisted upon engaging her in conversation. Quite gauche, you’ll agree!

  The lovely Miss B—, the successful party in a lawsuit against her erstwhile fiancé, the Hon. J— W—, which left her £1,000 richer, was saved only by the arrival of a Mr. T—, a sporting gentleman who is a testament to our fair country. Mr. M— appeared quite put out, and refused to dance with anyone when the quartet struck up a reel later that night.

  You can rest assured that only the Edinburgh Social Standard shall follow Miss B—’s success with the utmost attention and bring you any developments in—

  Moray didn’t bother to finish the article. He was already pulling his jacket on. “I’ll rip the feartie numpty to shreds.”

  “You absolutely will not,” said Eva, standing in front of the door.

  “Move,” he ordered. There was an understanding among the city’s newspapermen that they didn’t write about one another. It was a sort of stalemate prompted by the unspoken knowledge that none of them wanted anyone digging around in their backgrounds. Least of all him.

  “No. Not while you’re acting like a crazed bull. You have a vile temper and you know it. You’re no good to me in jail because you punched the man,” said Eva.

  “I’m not going to punch him, I’m going to strangle him!” he bellowed.

  “You are vastly overreacting,” Eva said.

  “He put me in the Standard!” he shouted. “That sorry excuse for a rag that isn’t good enough for lavvy paper. Now move.”

  Eva leveled a hard look at him. “Are you certain that what you’re really angry about is Ross putting your name in the Standard?”

  “Yes,” he said, fists clenched to his sides.

  He thought she might protest again, but instead she stepped aside.

  He jammed his hat onto his head as he stormed down the stairs and out into the street. It was raining and the cobblestones were slick, but he hardly noticed. He didn’t slow until he reached the offices of the Edinburgh Record, which also housed the Scottish Evening Record and the Edinburgh Social Standard. He pushed the door open and stood glowering and dripping in the entryway.

  “Where is he?” he bit out.

  The newspaper secretary’s eyes went wide, and the young man rocked up ou
t of his wooden chair. “Mr. Ross is in a meeting.”

  “Then he can leave that meeting.” Moray pointed up the stairs. “Is his office up there?”

  “Yes, but— Sir! Sir, you can’t go up!” shouted the young man as Moray began to climb the stairs.

  Ross’s office was easy enough to find thanks to the “Publisher” painted on the door. Moray gripped the brass handle and pushed it open.

  Four heads swirled to see him standing in the doorway. “I say!” a man in his shirtsleeves shouted, but at the head of the table Ross simply folded his hands and smiled.

  “Moray.”

  “Ross.”

  “Gentlemen, we’ll continue this at the top of the hour,” said Ross in a calm voice that only served to irritate Moray further.

  When the three men had gathered their proofs and pencils, Ross gestured to the chair across from him. “Please sit.”

  “I’ll stand. This won’t take long,” said Moray.

  “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t come earlier. I take it you’ve seen the Standard by now?” Ross asked, straightening a stack of loose notes in front of him.

  “What you did—”

  “Was exactly what you would’ve done if I’d inserted myself into a story,” said Ross.

  “There is no story.”

  Ross gave a little laugh of disbelief. “Is that so? Then why did the Tattler lead its edition two Fridays ago with the arrival of the lovely Miss Burkett? You put the lady back in the center of the news yourself. You can’t then complain about any of us covering it when you’re spotted speaking to her at a dinner party.”

  The bloody man was right, Moray knew that, but he didn’t have to like it. He owned and edited newspapers. He didn’t appear in them. He’d worked hard to cultivate the right sort of rumors about his past. He would never overcome his humble beginnings or the Highland burr that came out when he was angry, so he played into the narrative he wanted told—that of the hardworking young printmaker’s apprentice who’d scrimped and saved to purchase his first press and buy a one-page scandal sheet called the New Town Tattler. There was enough mundane truth in that story that he didn’t have to worry about anyone bothering him.

  But that was before Ross had connected his name to the woman everyone was interested in. The woman he’d help shine the spotlight on once again.

  “Leave me out of it,” Moray said.

  “Why, Moray, one would almost think that you had something to hide.”

  Moray braced his arms on either side of the table and leaned in close enough that he could see the fading burn of Ross’s clumsy morning shave. “I am not fodder for your gossip rag.”

  “Then stay away from Miss Burkett. I shouldn’t think that would be so difficult given how much you must be working to keep the Edinburgh Record and the Standard from surpassing your papers,” said Ross.

  “I notice you don’t include the Scottish Evening Record in that list.”

  Ross grunted.

  Moray rocked a little closer. “I don’t worry, because it’s never going to happen.”

  Except that was exactly what he feared. If Ross or any of the other newspapermen were to beat him, what else would he have?

  Ross shrugged. “Don’t be so sure.”

  Moray straightened and tugged at the collar of his shirt, struggling to regain his usual calm. He wasn’t one of the neighborhood children, scrapping and fighting at the slightest provocation any longer. He was a man—a powerful one.

  “We have nothing more to say to one another,” he said, stepping back into the role of the self-possessed, confident owner of two newspapers.

  Ross tipped his head to the side as though studying him and said, “I expect so, unless you’re looking to sell the Tattler.”

  This time it was Moray’s turn to laugh. “Why would I do that?”

  His rival sat back. “Rumor has it you want an evening paper but can’t afford the press or the building. Sell the Tattler to me and you’ll have the cash.”

  Moray ripped the door open, pausing only to say, “Know this, Ross. The Tattler is not, has not been, and never will be for sale.”

  Then he slammed the door behind him with a satisfying bang.

  Chapter Nine

  Miss B—, who is becoming quite the toast of Edinburgh society, marked another triumph yesterday when she received a call from Lady D— at the home of her brother, with whom she is staying. We’re told that the baroness brought her daughter-in-law and a niece along. Apple cake was served.

  —NEW TOWN TATTLER

  Trevlan arrived just as the soft chimes from the clock on the drawing room mantel struck ten. Mrs. James brought him through to greet first Elsie and then Caroline. Everything about him was proper, from the slim cut of his charcoal flannel waistcoat to his impeccable dove-gray gloves, and when he turned his smile to Caroline and asked if she was ready, she tried her best to answer prettily and look eager because that was what would be expected of her.

  She was a gentleman’s daughter and possessed the inherent knowledge of manners that one gains from growing up in an environment that demands the strict adherence to those rules. However, it had been years since she’d been courted, and she couldn’t hide the little tremble in her hand when Trevlan handed her up into his handsome phaeton. She’d never been an accomplished flirt—why develop the skill when she’d fallen for Julian at seventeen?—and she’d never been able to blend subtle coyness with the suggestion of something more. She was too direct, too sharp-tongued, and she worried that Trevlan wasn’t the sort of man to appreciate that sort of boldness in a woman.

  He’s not the only man in Edinburgh, she thought as he took up the leads. Yet she didn’t want to compromise a good chance when it came to her.

  The carriage lurched forward and they were off down the cobbled stretch of Cumberland Street.

  “You handle a carriage with great skill, sir,” she said as Trevlan eased the horses around the corner to Dundas Street on their way to Holyrood Park.

  “I’ve been driving since I was just thirteen,” he said, clearly proud of that fact. “My father insisted I learn one summer when I was home from school.”

  “Where did you attend school?” she asked.

  “Harrow,” he said. “I was head boy.”

  “Very impressive,” she murmured, preparing herself to settle in for a long description of his glories on the playing fields.

  Instead, Trevlan surprised her by asking, “Were you educated at home?”

  His question jerked her back into the conversation. “I had a governess until I was sixteen, and then I was sent to school in Switzerland for a year to be finished.”

  “Did you like it?” he asked, edging the phaeton around a slow-moving horse drawing a cart stacked high with bits of furniture out for delivery.

  “I hated it,” she said with a laugh. “I loved my governess, but my mother wanted me to make the right sort of friends. She also thought I was learning too much history and reading too many novels, to the detriment of my French and needlework, so Miss Walworth was dismissed and I was sent off to school.”

  “And how is your French now?” he asked.

  “Comme çi, comme ça,” she said with a shrug. “I can speak and read well enough as long as I’m not called upon to translate ancient French.”

  “My tutor made me read from La Chanson de Roland when I was eight. I’d rather not repeat the experience,” he said.

  She smiled. This wasn’t too difficult. Conversation could flow if she simply directed it in the right way.

  “Never fear, Mr. Trevlan. I prefer Zola and Balzac,” she said.

  “Balzac?” he asked with a start. “Who wrote Madame Bovary?”

  “Have you read it?” she asked eagerly. Perhaps literature would be the common ground upon which they could build a friendship and a courtship.

  A flush spread over Trevlan’s cheeks. “Certainly not. That book is about . . . about . . .”

  Good Lord, the man couldn’t even say the w
ord adultery. Granted she’d had to bribe Madeline to guarantee her silence when she went into Hatchards to purchase the book, and she’d hidden the volume in the back of her wardrobe because she knew if her mother were to see it a fight to end all fights would break out over her having such scandalous literature in the house. Still, it was just a book. Reading it wasn’t going to do her any harm.

  “Surely such literature isn’t appropriate for a young lady’s delicate constitution,” he continued.

  The urge to point out that she was neither particularly young nor particularly delicate nearly overwhelmed Caroline, but she bit the inside of her cheek instead.

  “What types of books do you read?” she asked, trying to put on a good face.

  “I don’t have much time for reading.” He must have seen her expression fall because he quickly said, “I do have a good collection of books about the natural world.”

  She grasped tight to that topic as they drove the rest of the way to the royal park and into the lush grounds. It shouldn’t have surprised her that a man as keen on hunting and the outdoors as Trevlan had a good working knowledge of botany and zoology, and she plumbed that interest for conversation. With Arthur’s Seat soaring to their right and the gray stone of Holyrood Palace to their left, they managed to chat with little incident despite their Madame Bovary misstep at the beginning of the drive.

  That is, until an axle on the carriage snapped.

  Moray’s eyes burned, and he could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones. The Tattler had been so demanding in the past days that he and Eva had both had to pitch in with more editing than usual. Then a fire had broken out in the Old Bowhead, necessitating two complete changes to the front page of the Lothian as the story developed. He needed a day off work and eighteen uninterrupted hours of sleep, but so did Eva, and he wasn’t leaving until she did.

  A pair of gloves and a riding crop landed smack in the middle of his desk, sending him back in his chair so violently that he nearly knocked it over.

  “Stand up,” Ina ordered, arms crossed over her chest. Gavin stood behind his wife, looking bemused, but did nothing to stop her.